


Hver blomst en stjerne

by brigitttt



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Fictional Religion & Theology, First Time, Hennike Lives, Hunters & Hunting, Kempt, Kissing, M/M, Nature, Non-Penetrative Sex, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brigitttt/pseuds/brigitttt
Summary: A not-quite-modern Kempt, in which resides Laurent, his mother, and brother. In the slice of time between winter and spring, Damen makes his yearly visit. A story about nature and home. Of course, a story with love.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 93





	Hver blomst en stjerne

**Author's Note:**

> Title means "Each bloom a star", from Henrik Ibsen’s “Vårens minde" ("Memories of Spring”).  
> I got a feeling into my head that I had to write about something in the winter, somewhere up north in the cold, so I turned Kempt into Norway and wrote about that. Please ask me about my over-thought fictional polytheistic system. Watch out for the scene where deer are hunted if that is a thing you don't want to read (it's well telegraphed). Enjoy!

Laurent approaches the skerry carefully, leather boots slipping a little over the hard ice. There had been a great, jolting _crack!_ yesterday heard all the way back in the town, nature clearly signalling the start of her melt, and Laurent had laughed as Auguste threw back his fur hood and whooped into the still cold air, scaring the ptarmigans they were trying to catch away into the forest underbrush. Everyone at the Hall in town had been in good spirits when they returned that afternoon, swearing that dusk certainly had fallen later than the day before, or at least later than last week. Auguste had rolled his eyes at Laurent over his mead but kept smiling nonetheless.

He keeps his eyes on the rock in front of him now, less than a metre away, covered in deep green moss, stagnant in the current cold but likely itching to grow again soon. Laurent clambers up to the top of the little skerry and looks out toward the mouth of the fjord; the horizon is choppy with freezing ocean waves in the distance, but there are no boats yet.

When he gets back to the house, Auguste isn’t there, but mother is. The big chest is open and sitting in the middle of the room, close enough to the fire for mother to reach out and give their dinner a stir while she sorts through their old clothes and blankets. She looks up at Laurent’s entrance and something sparks, and she roots around in the pile of fabric on her lap. She holds up a frilly blue child’s frock, one that Laurent barely recognises from his own childhood.

“I thought we could give this to Asta, for when she has the baby,” she says with a smile, bouncing it up and down to make the ruffles move. “I knew we still had it somewhere, didn’t take long to find.”

Laurent tugs his hands out of his mittens and brushes the blue wool between two fingers before sitting down on a stool and holding his hands out to warm from the fire. “Wasn’t there a bonnet too? I remember hating a bonnet,” he says. His mother frowns, but digs back into the chest.

Auguste returns late at night, well after Laurent and his mother have had their dinner and settled down for sleep. He stumbles against Laurent’s bed and breathes the strong smell of ale onto his face, whispering Laurent’s name over and over until he comes further awake.

“What is it, you great lout,” Laurent grumbles, and Auguste smiles widely, holding Laurent’s face between his hands.

“Only that spring is here! We were proving the strength of our axes against the fjord ice,” says Auguste, trailing off into a gurgle of a laugh. Laurent tries to imbue his responding glare with as much unimpressed fatigue as possible.

“Blunting your axes, more like,” he says, then pushes Auguste’s hands away. “Let us sleep.”

“Dream of sun and warm winds,” Auguste replies. Thankfully he heaves himself over to his own bed, collapsing with a grunt and leaving Laurent to his peace. When he’s finally about to drift off, he does think lazily of the coming sun and wildflowers, freshly churned butter, sheep grazing on bright green grass.

***

Laurent is out on the hillside the next day to assess the greenery underneath the melting snow when something catches his eye out on the fjord. It rounds the curve too quickly to be a boat, and the faint echo of barking dogs that travels up to him can only mean one thing. Laurent hurtles down the hill with less care than he should take, but he’s too excited. His boots crunch over snow and moss and rock, and he leaps wildly over the dormant cloudberry patch, landing gracelessly on his hands and knees but picking himself back up quickly. Once at the edge of town, the land flattens out, and Laurent races between buildings, spooking a horse in its stable and dispersing some chickens in his path until he finally reaches the docks.

Damen is there, and so are Laurent’s neighbours, and barking dogs and children and the wind off the ice has picked the soft snow up into a sudden flurry, but—Damen is there. His shoulders are covered in a new deerskin since the last time Laurent saw him, but everything else is the same. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the dimple in his cheek, the dark curls that manage to escape from the leather band tying his hair back.

Laurent waits at the edge of the group, mostly because the sled dogs’ excitement cannot be contained and Damen stands at the centre of their eagerness, laughing alongside their yips and barks, doling out generous pieces of seal fat. He gives the last portion out and pats each dog on their flanks, then starts to sidle away from where they’re all tied to the wood beam of a hitching post. Erik the blacksmith snags Damen’s attention first with an arm slung optimistically around his upper back, likely aiming and failing to reach Damen’s shoulders, but by chance Damen flicks his amiable gaze over to catch Laurent’s. A necessarily silent kind of message is shared in that one glance, and with a nod, Laurent breaks off from the group.

Damen finds him sitting on a large rock a little ways in from the edge of the forest, slightly up the hillside from the waterline and away from the lower town buildings. Laurent tosses away the pine branch he had been idly shedding needles off of and swings his legs over the side; the rock is large enough that Laurent had had to clamber up with leverage from his boot on a tree trunk. Damen’s chest now comes up to Laurent’s bent knees.

Damen quirks a smile at him, one that tilts his mouth to his dimple’s greatest effect. “Good winter?” he asks, laying his hand on the face of the rock by Laurent’s upper calf.

“A cold one,” says Laurent. “But not cold enough to kill us yet.” Damen huffs a laugh at the exchange they’ve repeated for years and sways closer, and because Laurent can’t help but remind himself of endings, he asks, “When do you leave?”

Damen’s chest is nearly touching Laurent’s knee, but its approach pauses. Damen’s mouth twists a little. “Probably tomorrow. I’m needed in Gaupeby before the full melt.” It’s a town over 100 miles away by water, the ice route made rough with the changing season, but Laurent knows Damen has been travelling like this for more than a decade now; he can make it in time. Damen’s hand brushes Laurent’s calf. “Laurent—”

“Do you have time for a hike?” Laurent asks. Before Damen can reply Laurent hops down off the rock, taking a recovering step away from Damen but holding out his hand. Damen’s sealskin glove is large and bulky on top of Laurent’s wool one.

The sky is a clear and fresh blue, from what Laurent can see through the tips of tall pines. They’re going vaguely and slowly upwards, but it’s aimless and calm, hands occasionally tensed in the others’ grip for balance as they step over logs and snow patches and little melt streams shimmering down the mountainside. They walk until they reach a little plateau, relatively free of snow and close to the edge of the forest, close enough that Laurent can see the markings for the path that the shepherds use to guide their flock down the valley. Damen uses his hold on Laurent’s hand to swing him around, catching him on the small of his back with one big arm at Laurent’s waist. He tucks his chin behind the high fuzzy collar of his fur coat and looks down at Laurent. A blackbird warbles out a tune overhead.

“You look more handsome each time I see you,” Damen says in a smiling whisper. He uses his armpit as a grip to slide his glove off so he can trace the back of his bare finger under Laurent’s eye, across the cheekbone.

Laurent knows he is betrayed by his own flushing face, but still says, “It’s easy to forget someone’s looks when you only see them once a year.”

“Never,” Damen says quickly. “I never forget you.” His finger brushes a strand of hair behind Laurent’s ear, and he leans in. “I’m hoping to be back in late summer this time, though.”

“Oh twice a year is much better, then. I’m satisfied,” Laurent says with slight sarcasm, although he does enjoy the thought of seeing Damen sooner than next winter. Damen grins, his eyes crinkling with it, and he covers the distance between them smoothly, catching Laurent’s bottom lip. It’s so easy to press back, to stand in the weak spring sun, hear the call of little songbirds in the woods, and smooth his lips over Damen’s, warm and soft and unhurried.

Each time Damen comes to town, and each time Damen kisses him like this, so gently and lovingly, Laurent is reminded of his firsts; Damen had been sixteen when he’d started the winter trade route, barely able to control his sled dog team but bright and smiling nonetheless, selling sugar and coffee from the cities in the south, buying trinkets and craftwork to sell on his way back. He hadn’t been the only one doing it at the time, but over the decade of his work Damen had grown into his own deeply charismatic and caring traveller, more than just his trading sled and business deals. Laurent had fallen for him embarrassingly quickly, and had kissed him only three years after that first winter, the bravest thing he’d ever done at seventeen. It was like Damen had been waiting for it, content all the while with yearly sightings, annual meetings of his gaze, the brushing of a gloved hand against a leather-covered arm.

Laurent breathes out and makes space shortly after sliding his own tongue alongside Damen’s, needing to cool his racing heart. Damen’s forehead comes to rest on Laurent’s, and Laurent takes the time to push off his mittens, sliding his hands around the back of Damen’s head, scratching at his hairline with his fingers. Damen lets out a steady, low noise from the back of his throat, and shifts to kiss Laurent again, and again, his hand sliding up Laurent’s back to his shoulder blade, and again.

They take the sheep track back down to the town, Damen leading and Laurent following, the path too steep to take with joined hands. Nearly the entire layout of the fjord is visible below them as they descend, and Damen pauses once to trace the path across the ice his sled must take the next morning. Laurent bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing, eyes straying from the valley to Damen’s face: his warm brown eyes, the curve of his nose, the strength of his jaw. An intimate geography.

Just as they reach the topmost fence of the fields that directly border the town, Laurent hooks his hand under Damen’s upper arm and turns him around.

“Have dinner with us,” he says. “Spend the night at ours.” He refuses to acknowledge the pleading nature of his own words, focussing only on keeping his gaze level with Damen’s. Until Damen looks away with a sigh.

“I’ve already paid for a night at the Hall,” says Damen. “I didn’t want to presume—your mother only has so much food—”

“No, it’s fine, you’re right,” Laurent acquiesces. “The summer, then.”

Damen smiles again, at that. “The summer,” he agrees.

***

Laurent ignores the look his mother gives him as he leaves the house before dawn the next morning. She always wears an expression of pleased acceptance whenever the topic of Damen comes up, especially around Laurent, but it sometimes reminds him too closely of the look of the hawk-eyed matchmakers in the south, the big cities putting so much pressure on young arrangements that all suitable prospects were assessed more like livestock than anything. The older couples here in the north seem to perfectly represent the slow and natural accumulation of affection between people who regardless consider events on a seasonal basis. No doubt Auguste will have the most luck of finding a wife at midsummer, when the fjord villages gather.

At least he is not the only one present at the docks to see Damen off. Most of the farmers will already be awake at this hour, bidding farewell to Damen as partner in trade business. Laurent lingers by one of Damen’s older dogs, who allows Laurent to pet her without too much jumping around under his hand. By the time Damen has made most of his goodbyes, Laurent has found a particular spot under her chin that gets her to sit still. Damen turns to look at him with so much warmth that Laurent looks away, down to where the rocks support the beams of the dock.

“See you soon,” Damen says, instead of his usual _see you next year_. Laurent nods, and reaches out for Damen’s shoulder as Damen reaches to clasp his. Laurent wishes he could tuck his hand in between Damen’s fur collar and his neck, feel the warmth there, but he keeps his hand where it is, gripping onto the firm bundle of Damen’s shoulder under several layers of clothing.

A little cheer erupts from the crowd when Damen pushes off on his sled, the dogs ecstatic with movement, to begin his journey back along the fjord to the ice-path north. The sun is still hidden behind the mountains but the sky is beginning to shimmer with daylight, and Laurent is so relaxed from the chilly near-spring air that he almost misses the moment when the dogs and the sled, rapidly fading to a dot in the distance, take a sharp turn towards the fjord banks. There’s a rumble that seems to emanate from the deep waters themselves, and Laurent and the others along the docks nervously look at each other until they all seem to realise in one clean moment what must have happened. There’s a scramble to the dock hut for rope and snowshoes and even some wood planks, just in case— the water is deathly cold underneath all that ice.

By the time their little group has closed the distance, Laurent can see the sled lying on its side, the dogs staying mostly still but barking madly. The ice has broken through and is cracking out toward the ocean end of the fjord, and there’s no sign of Damen – Laurent’s breath suddenly catches roughly in his throat, his hands desperately tying a loop into the end of a length of rope, eyes darting along the jagged edge of the newly broken ice, the sway of the water in the gaps. There’s a separate commotion over on the snowbank by the trees that Laurent ignores for now, desperate to catch sight of Damen. Jens from the northwest farm has started hacking away the edge of the ice, and Laurent finally unsticks from his shock and goes over to help.

“The tide’s coming in,” says Jens between swings of his axe, and Laurent understands. If Damen had gotten trapped under the ice he would be pulled inwards, on the town side of the still widening ice gap. Something of a relief, compared to the alternative.

Just as he stares down toward the water, though, he sees bubbles rise a few metres away, and then, miraculously, heartstoppingly, the flail of a gloved hand.

Laurent shouts something, his heart racing again as he dashes over and kneels on the ice edge, unspooling his rope. His calls must be compelling because a couple of the men hurry over too, but Laurent’s already flung the rope to where he last saw the hand, and after a few breathless seconds, he feels a tug on it.

“Pull!” Laurent yells, and the men help drag the rest of Damen’s water-logged body onto the ice. It cracks a little underneath all of their combined weight, and as a unit with deeply ingrained knowledge, the men disperse a little ways away, some lowered onto their bellies, limbs splayed. All their piercing focus is still on Damen, though, who is coughing painfully. Laurent and Jens manage to haul him further away from the edge, far enough that they could probably stand on it. Laurent crawls over to Damen.

“Are you okay?” Laurent asks. Damen’s cheeks are glacially cold when Laurent lays his hands on either side of his face. “Someone pass the blanket!”

An unspoken agreement passes between the men to remain silent on their stern way back to town, sticking close to the edge of the water, but Laurent does a double take at the remorseful faces of the two children who seem to have joined them for the return journey. He furrows his brow and turns back ahead, though, making sure the blanket is secure around Damen’s shoulders as they make their slow way. Damen’s shivering hasn’t stopped but his steps are still steady along the ice by the fjord bank. Laurent dares not break the silence, but also wouldn’t know what exactly to say.

They’re met at the docks by a couple of the slightly later risers of the town, including Laurent’s mother. She gasps inaudibly when she sees the state of everyone, especially Damen, but puts her hands on her hips for the last of their group’s approach. Laurent knows this look of hers well.

“Laurent, take Damen back to ours and start the fire. Arne you go with him, and grab the kettle and the big pot, too. Hans, secure the dogs to the post.” She settles her gaze over the other men. “The rest of you put your things away. Jens, do you think you could spare a couple of your bear furs?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, only nods and sets off towards the Hall. Laurent angles Damen towards the short path back to his house, wondering whether Auguste will still be there or if he’s already gone up into the woods to set rabbit traps. They trudge their way back, with Arne on Damen’s other side, and once the door is closed Laurent settles Damen down on the edge of his own bed, unsure of where else he could be put. Damen catches his gaze on Laurent’s once he’s sitting, and Laurent desperately wants to run his hands all over him, impart Damen’s usual warmth back into him with long and steady strokes, with kisses all across his face, his neck, his chest. Before Laurent’s heart can beat out of his ribcage, he turns to start the fire. Arne leaves to fill the kettle and the pot with water, and when he comes back to set them down he crouches next to Laurent.

“The twins got it into their heads they could help usher spring along,” he says, voice lowered. Laurent clenches his jaw and adds another piece of tinder to the growing flame. “Found a crack in the fjord ice and drove a pole into it. ‘Course it was right when Damen was on his way out, must’ve tried to avoid hitting them, or the pole, or both, and the ice gave way.”

Laurent shifts to sitting on his knees, dusts off his hands on his trousers. He bites back on the choice words he would like to say about the twins, and possibly their parents who let them get away with everything, and takes a deep breath through his nose instead. The flame flickers from it but catches onto the next piece of kindling. He opens his mouth to try to say something else, but nothing emerges. Tom nods, attaches the kettle to the fire hanger, and pats Laurent on the shoulder as he makes his way out.

Laurent focuses on managing the fire so intently for the next couple minutes that he startles when he hears a rough cough from behind him. “Damen,” Laurent says aimlessly, helpless to avoid the sad sight of Damen bundled in blankets and perched on the bed. Laurent gathers himself, says, “There will be tea soon, and mamma will be back to make warm food.”

Damen sighs. He’s no longer shivering as badly, but the blanket is still clutched very tightly around his shoulders. “I suppose sledding to Gaupeby is out of the question, now,” he says.

“The only other way would be through the mountains,” Laurent agrees. “That would take at least a week with all your cargo.”

Damen hums. His eyes flick from the fire crackling away happily, up to Laurent. “Come here,” he says, half of his words covered in a low coarseness that jolts something in Laurent’s chest. Laurent stands and shakily makes his way over, standing awkwardly close to Damen’s spread knees. One of Damen’s hands snakes out from under the blanket and pulls on Laurent’s waist to bring him even closer, and then he leans forward to rest his head on Laurent’s stomach. Laurent holds Damen’s head there on instinct, sure that if he was not wearing so many layers over his shirt, he would be able to feel each warm exhale out of Damen’s mouth.

Laurent’s mother strides in to find them like this. Without batting an eye, she heaves a large stack of bear pelts onto her own bed in the corner, and snaps, “What are you still doing in those wet clothes? Out of them, now, quickly! Laurent, make the tea; I’m going to feed this boy some hot broth.” Laurent can feel his face turn bright red as he backs away, but Damen only laughs, and stiffly levers himself upright to start undressing.

***

Auguste learns of Damen’s predicament that night, returning with a string of patchy white and brown rabbits, pausing briefly in the doorway with widened eyes until their mother snaps at him to shut the door already. He takes it in stride, though, sympathetic to the wait Damen will have to make before the first of the boats come along, but clearly pleased to welcome Damen into their home for the time. He blithely says he overheard Anders at the Hall talking about the inland ferry due to come in a couple days, not to worry.

Laurent envies his brother’s easy charm; he’s fairly certain that the only reason anyone in the town talks with him at all is due to the approachability of his mother and brother, indirectly catching Laurent by association, and the fact that the town is too small to be choosy about who one greets as they pass by. Damen’s presence he views as something of a miracle, in all fairness.

They sit in a semi-circle in front of the fire for the night, sipping on hot fruit soup as a treat. Damen has one of the bear furs draped over his shoulders overtop of a blanket, and his face has regained a healthy blush. Laurent shares a second fur with Auguste and their mother has a third all to her own. It’s a nice image, one that Laurent desperately wants to remember for all time: Damen as a part of his family, everyone warm and full and laughing, the lightness of spring on the way.

Laurent also ends up sharing a bed with Auguste, relinquishing his own to Damen first under the command of their mother – who insists that one of her sons will be so generous to their guest – and then under the bullying of Auguste, who insists that the youngest child should have no arguments. Laurent only puts up a little bit of a fight for the look of it, but is secretly pleased to look over during the last light from the fire embers and see Damen’s sleep-softened face, lips slightly parted, breathing evenly in his bed.

***

Laurent wakes up before dawn and can’t fall back asleep. He pulls on the same tunic and trousers from yesterday, pulls on his boots and goes outside, careful not to make too much noise. The pre-dawn light softens the entire valley and sets a mist over the slowly melting fjord. A lark calls from a grass roof somewhere nearby, and Laurent tucks his hands under his own armpits and trudges up towards the field. He passes by the communal stables and takes a detour, rolling open the barn door and, one by one, greeting the farm horses. They’ll be put to work soon enough once spring truly gathers speed, but for now they sniff curiously at his sleeves and he brushes his hands along their necks.

He imagines what Damen would look like with a sleigh team of horses instead of sled dogs, and then laughs at the thought of Damen decked out in full Kemptian folk dress, brightly embroidered blues and reds across his broad shoulders, elegant fur cape and hat, a blinding smile as he holds the reins, his sleigh decorated with beautiful rosemåling scrollwork. It’s like something out of a fairytale. The horse in front of him nudges Laurent in the shoulder, and he strokes a palm down her nose.

Eventually he girds himself to go back out of the relative warmth of the stables and into the chill morning air. The sun is just about to rise over the horizon, casting everything in an expectant, purplish glow, so that when Laurent rounds the corner of the barn all he sees is the silhouette of a large man walking into town, the thick fur of a bear pelt still hanging off of his frame. Laurent jogs to catch up.

“Good morning,” Damen says, flashing Laurent a tired but no less amiable smile. He clears his throat, and Laurent almost winces at the crackly sound of it. “Checking on the dogs. What are you up to?”

Laurent faces ahead and shrugs. “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.” Damen only nods, and they trek down to the docks. A scuffle of paws and snouts occurs just before the barking, and Damen – when had he taken Laurent’s wrist in his hand? – insinuates himself and Laurent into the middle of the group. Laurent plasters his chest to Damen’s arm almost immediately, in an effort not to get bowled over by enthusiastic dogs, and Damen just laughs, letting them jump and sniff at his legs and lick all over the bare hand he has free.

One of the men from yesterday must have brought back the sled itself, its wrappings and cargo still mostly intact, but listing heavily to one side. It seems to have lost one of its runners and badly cracked the rest of the frame; very much best to wait for a boat, then. Damen shifts over to it, noticing the damage with a sigh. He lets go of Laurent’s wrist to untie a strap and bring out a heavily wrapped leather bag that must contain the dogs’ food.

Overtop the sudden increase in barking, Damen says, “I might have to go hunting soon. Would you – hey, drop it! Would you, um, be able to help me?”

Laurent pauses halfway from petting the older dog he recognizes. “With hunting?” he says with disbelief. Damen blushes and flounders for an excuse, and it’s immensely amusing. Laurent smiles.

After stopping back by the house to get a packed lunch, a peck on the cheek each from Laurent’s mother, and a sharp knowing grin from Auguste, they head out to the woods, in a direction Laurent knows will have some passing deer.

It seems strange to think that only yesterday Damen was pulled from the ice, and now he and Laurent are hiking up the valley, as fresh as ever. Damen’s got his rifle slung across his back for the trek, hands free for balance, and Laurent imagines, yet again, pulling off their gloves and meeting hand to hand, skin to skin, Damen’s ever-warm palm meeting Laurent’s, fingers clasped.

“Are you still cold?” Laurent ventures. The snow is only a thin layer over the grass and dirt up here, melted both by the sun and the stamp of their boots.

Damen shakes his head. “No, I think I’ve got all my warmth back, now.” He swings his arm out to brush Laurent’s on another step upwards. “All thanks to you.”

Laurent blushes. “The other men,” he starts weakly, not quite selfish enough to take all the credit, but not so selfless as to diminish his major role in the rescue. A woodpecker sounds off a little ways away, and in the following quiet, Laurent says, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He feels the sudden turn of Damen’s gaze on him but can’t bring himself to meet it.

Damen clears his throat awkwardly, adjusts the rifle strap where it sits across his chest. “You would live as you do for all the other days of the year, when I am not here. You would go on.”

Laurent feels his throat close up and looks away, off to the north, through the trees. What Damen is saying is the truth, but also, it’s not; most of the days that Damen is not passing through the area, Laurent is thinking about him, and not just in the past tense. He wonders which town Damen is in, whether it’s north, south, or east of here. He thinks about the next winter, and whether his mother will have enough embroidered handkerchiefs to sell through Damen’s trading. He imagines Damen in all sorts of ways, eating dinners, chopping wood, riding sleighs, leading horses through fields – hunting deer. It is as if they are always in the presence of each other, even when Damen is not around. Nevertheless, Laurent’s throat constricts around the reply, ‘ _I don’t think I could._ ’

They emerge just then onto the slight plateau along which deer often travel. Laurent finally looks back at Damen to bring a silent finger to his mouth, then to gesture to the general path in front of them. Damen nods. Adjusting their view of the plateau is a simple task, and it’s not too long before a spot in the brush becomes their blind. Damen shakes his head at two smaller deer that pass by; not enough for a whole team of sled dogs. A young stag wanders into view a little ways away, antlers already growing with the new season, and Laurent takes extra care to stay as still as possible, while Damen brings the rifle up to his shoulder.

A shadow appears in the corner of Laurent’s eye, tearing his gaze away from the deer and Damen’s focus, and towards the south. A large, dark grey wolf emerges from behind a thicker cluster of young trees, and starts its stalk forward toward the stag. Laurent’s eyes widen and without breaking his gaze he grabs onto the first part of Damen he reaches, which turns out to be his thigh. Laurent squeezes, and feels the rifle lower; Damen must see the wolf too, now.

Laurent lets out a shaky breath through his nose, and feels Damen’s hand come to cover his own on Damen’s thigh, just as the wolf twitches its piercing focus onto where they’re supposed to be mostly hidden in the blind. He can feel his heartbeat swim up into his ears with the tension, held until the wolf’s next move. He can’t hear anything with the rushing in his head, and can’t see anything but the wolf’s solid and unerring face of judgment, but he can feel the squeeze of his hand trapped where it is on Damen, and after an infinite pause, the wolf smoothly turns its head back to the deer, and takes another soundless step forward. Laurent feels like he hasn’t blinked in a year.

So suddenly that it must have been calculated, rather than an accident, a branch snaps, and the deer freezes, pinned invisibly into place by the wolf, an extended moment preceding a rush of movement – which never comes. A second unseen wolf had been waiting along the slope above the deer, making a leap onto its back, sinking sharp teeth right into the neck, avoiding antlers and hooves and all. It’s barely another moment until the first wolf is calmly trotting towards the kill, pulling a fresh bite away, and turning once more over its shoulder to face Damen and Laurent, maw bloodied and eyes alight. Damen plucks up Laurent’s numb hand into his own and carefully backs away, pulling Laurent with him, slinging the rifle over his shoulder in a practiced gesture. If they break into a sprint a little ways northwest once they’re out of the wolves’ eyeline, and if they held hands for the whole time despite the uneven ground, then no one else has to know.

They stop once they reach a little melt stream. Laurent detaches from Damen’s hand and nearly throws himself back into a tree, breath heaving.

“ _Ulvensgud_ ,” Laurent says on an exhale. Damen eyes him from where he’s bent over, hands braced on his knees. “ _Mektig ulvenesgud og rask hjortenesgud_.”

“Not fast enough, this time,” Damen says. He straightens, takes his gloves off, and crouches down again, cupping his hands in the stream to drink from. It must be refreshingly cool, but Laurent can’t bring himself to stop leaning on the tree trunk for at least another minute. Damen rests back in his crouch, elbows on knees and hands dangling.

“Do you believe in them? The gods?”

On instinct Laurent strains to hear some sort of judgement in Damen’s tone, but can’t detect any. “Anyone might, when they get as close to one as we just did,” he answers. He shakes his head, though, not sure why he feels so defensive. “But not really.”

They’re good stories, though. Laurent remembers all the times he and Auguste had been bundled in blankets with their mother, the memories combined into one with their similarity, listening to her name each god and talk of their feats, their duties, their fates. For Laurent it’s not so much a faith, but a reminder; things a human being can learn from rather than rely on. A knowledge rather than a hope. He wonders what Damen might think of him now, this northern small town rube naming the mighty god of wolves and the swift god of deer like some wide eyed country boy.

Damen stands, wiping his hands on his trousers. “They don’t teach about them in the southern cities, and I never hear you talk about them either.” He rests a hand low on his chest, just above his belly, and looks off into the rest of the forest behind Laurent. “I remember hearing a story about fish.”

Laurent takes a moment to study Damen’s face, the quiet delineations of contemplation upon it. He wets his lips, and finally levers himself off the tree and down to the stream. “ _Rikelig fiskenesgud_ ,” he says, taking off his mitts and laying them in his lap as he kneels over the water. “The story of her many children?”

“Yes,” Damen says. “And how her daughter was promised to the god of . . . which bird was it?”

“Hawk,” Laurent says. The icy cold meltwater feels good in his throat now that he’s caught his breath. He holds his hand out to Damen, who takes it, threading their fingers together. “Clever and successful, _flink haukenesgud_.”

“Ah, does that remind you of someone?” Damen says with a cheeky, lopsided smile. Laurent snorts and uses Damen’s hand to pull himself upright.

“There are much more apt stories for you,” Laurent says, and then he’s overcome with the urge to just—“Come here,” he says, wrapping a hand around the side of Damen’s neck, pleased at the back of his mind with the warmth he finds there, and kisses him. He can feel Damen try to fall into a naturally slow rhythm, but that’s not what Laurent wants right now, so with firm strokes of his fingers along the back of Damen’s neck he urges them both on, and after a minute, letting Damen shift to kiss along his jaw, down his sensitive neck, brushing up against the rabbit fur of Laurent’s collar. Laurent tilts his head back to give Damen space, and sees the pine branches sway and heave in a sudden strong breeze. He lets his eyes close at the breath-shortening feeling of Damen dragging his lips up his throat and opens them again when Damen’s thumb brushes across his cheek.

“Have you heard the story of the forest and the storm?” Laurent asks, panting slightly. Damen shakes his head, and shifts to kiss where his thumb had been, then under Laurent’s other eye. “It’s about a dance, between _gammel skogenesgud_ _og skiftende stormenesgud_ ,” he says. “The ancient ground and the changing sky, touching—” Laurent pauses with an inaudible gasp at a sucking kiss just below his ear. “Touching only when the trees grow tall enough or the winds grow strong enough. Dancing together, but never truly meeting.”

Damen breathes hotly into the space between Laurent’s neck and his coat collar. “Romantic,” he whispers.

It’s certainly not the full story, but Laurent couldn’t recollect the plot right now if he tried, too swept up in their closeness. Which, of course, can’t last, his mind cruelly recalls. The inland ship will pass by the mouth of the fjord in a day, taking Damen with it. And then, Laurent thinks, there will only be late summer to look forward to.

He pulls Damen from his neck for another full kiss, dipping his tongue past Damen’s lips to drag a breathy moan out of him, which settles and simmers in Laurent’s gut. Always dancing, always changing. That’s the way of this world, Laurent thinks.

***

They find another deer. It’s slightly smaller than the stag, but enough to haul back down to the town butcher. Damen genially laughs off the offer of repayment for the cuts he won’t be able to take with him, insisting on leaving them as gifts to the town for the trouble of rescuing his sorry self. Laurent lingers by the door with a small smile, and clutches his own mittened hands behind his back to keep from grabbing Damen’s on their way out. As they pass by the Hall, Anders pokes his head out from the doorway and calls Damen over.

Dinner that night is quiet, with fresh spiced bread to sop up soup, and a special slice each with laks and kremost. Damen makes Laurent’s mother blush with his compliments to the chef, and Auguste excuses himself outside to smoke his pipe. Laurent feels himself sink further down into his bed covers, content with the scene before him. Their house is older, lit in the night with the fire in its corner hearth and some candles scattered about, the birch bark and turf on the roof keeping everything warm. Laurent’s eyes drift shut thinking about those summers when he and Auguste would spend continuous days up at the mountain pasture, climbing up onto the low grass roof and staying up too late with the sun. They would hang their feet off the roof edge at the back and the cows would come to investigate, and Auguste would inevitably tease that that’s how one farm kid over in the east got his foot bitten off. Laurent would protest with a squeal and shove at Auguste, and they’d laugh until the girl in the dairy next door would shout at them to come over and help churn butter if they were just going to loaf around all day.

He’s not sure if he really drifts off or not, but he blinks his eyes open at the soft brush of Damen’s fingers over his wrist and Damen’s low voice saying his name. Laurent flicks his eyes over the room beyond Damen’s very close and very dashing face to see his mother smiling fondly at the both of them.

“Come see what we’ve carved, Laurent,” she says, and Laurent takes Damen’s hand to stand up from the bed and arc down to the cushions by the fireside. Damen sits next to him and places a small piece of wood in his hand.

It’s just smaller than his palm, and approximately circular, curving upwards like a lens, but with the distinct outline of a dog carved in the centre, its form long and like that of the old traditional carvings still found in the pillars of the Hall. Laurent runs his fingers over the surface, a little rough but the carving strokes are very clean. He flips it over one-handed, and finds the faint outline of a flower, in his mother’s rosemåling style.

“It’s nice,” Laurent says quietly. It occurs to him again, how affecting it is to see Damen in a position like this, intimately enveloped in firelight and the small, touching artistic endeavours of his family. He swallows thickly and hands the carving back and craves, utterly, the repetition of this night. Why not this whole day, as well, with its fantastical and deified encounters, the bliss of sharing privacy in the open outdoors with someone he truly has come to love, in a remarkably gradual way.

Damen quirks his lips and says, “I’ll need to practice both my painting and carving before I can finish this.” Laurent’s mother nods.

“Well, you mentioned late summer?” she replies with a smile. “Plenty of time, then.”

Laurent’s next blink slows and his eyelids feel heavy. He lists to the side and lands with his temple against Damen’s shoulder, and considers how time is a thing of plenty, as well as a fickle thing, and a rarity. A hand lands on his back and stays there, guiding him into bed, ushering him to sleep.

***

Laurent wakes up early again, in his own bed this time, and feels a warm body at his back. He shifts carefully to peer over his shoulder.

The mountain of Damen’s shoulder rises and falls gently with his breathing, his lips slightly parted. Laurent’s gaze lingers over the softness of the skin under Damen’s eyes, and the stubble over his cheeks and jaw, before following his nose back up to his dark, heavy eyebrows, the fan of long eyelashes, the pillow-flattened curl of hair over his forehead. He has an urge to sink himself into this picture.

Laurent tries to reorient his front toward Damen’s without jostling the bed too much. Damen’s back is to the rest of the room, so with a quick glance to see his mother and brother sleeping or faced away, Laurent lifts a hand to brush his fingertips over the stubble that comes down onto Damen’s neck. The skin under his touch radiates warmth, and with a slightly firmer press of fingers, Laurent can feel the pulse of blood underneath. Unbidden, the image of yesterday’s wolf with bloodied maw appears to him, but in his drowsiness he doesn’t feel the fracturing fear that he did before, only closes his eyes again. In a quasi dream Laurent imagines the swaying of fir trees, bark rough and roots extending long and shallow under the soil across the mountains, racing and chasing faster and faster through the earth. A large hand settles on his side.

“Damen,” Laurent gasps, jolted out of the dream. His hand that had been resting on Damen’s neck accidentally knocks Damen under his jaw and Damen lets out a stifled ‘ _oof_ ,’ in response. He catches Laurent’s hand with his own.

A pause, in which Laurent looks at Damen’s sleepy brown eyes, feels the bones in his own hand under Damen’s grasp, and forgets that his face is making some sort of longing expression which can be seen. He pinches his brows together and whispers, “Sorry.”

“No matter,” Damen says quietly. “It’ll only bruise, I’m sure.” He presses his lips together in a manner clearly for restraining a smile, and Laurent scoffs. He pushes their joined hands back to Damen’s neck to feel the stubble give way to smooth skin again.

“Laurent,” Damen says, before kissing the side of Laurent’s palm. Both the whisper and the action are so soft and low that it makes Laurent want to rock forward into Damen, push his hand further into Damen’s mouth, imagine further along this particular vein. He’s unfortunately starkly aware of the lack of privacy afforded to them in this house, however, as Damen’s hand detaches from Laurent’s and starts trailing down his arm, his side, his hip, staring all the while into Laurent’s eyes.

When Damen moves his head forward toward Laurent’s mouth, his hand curves down around the back of his thigh, and Laurent manages to breathe out, “Outside, please, before they notice.”

In one way or another, Damen is able to both keep a hand plastered to somewhere on Laurent and pick up the thick wool blanket while they both get out of the bed and navigate to the door. The pre-dawn morning that greets them is glowing and slightly misty out in the direction of the water. Laurent leads them around the back of the house to the path that will take them up the mountain and to a small natural clearing in the forest, covered in moss in the spring and mushrooms in the autumn. Birds hidden in the brush chirp and flit about, but otherwise it’s calm and lovely. Damen kneels down to run a hand over the moss, where it’s already squishing under the weight of his knees. He smiles like he’s never experienced such a texture before and Laurent finds the corner of his own mouth lifting, finds himself breathing in the fresh spring air through his nose and stepping forward. He finds himself placing a gentle hand on top of Damen’s head.

He hears Damen hum in reply, which usually means he’s closed his eyes too, or at least lowered the lids of them to that stupidly arousing half-mast level that Laurent only ever sees after the more extreme bouts of once-a-year kissing. As much as he had previously wanted to angle Damen’s head at its current convenient height towards his own stomach, or lower, the prospect actually becomes quite daunting; Laurent sinks to his own knees in the springy moss instead and drags his hand down from Damen’s hair to his shoulder to press him back onto his ass.

“When does the ferry come,” Laurent says as he tries to arrange Damen’s legs so he can sit atop them, and then interrupts the answer with a cloying kiss, sweet and deep against Damen’s lips and tongue. Damen’s hands fly up to hold Laurent around the ribs as a sort of reflex.

“Midday,” Damen manages in between kisses. He stammers out a quick “Laurent, we—” before Laurent covers his mouth with his own again. He doesn’t want to think about Damen leaving even though its his own stupid brain that needs to, at the same time, confirm everything about his inevitable departure. Like watching a shipwreck from a distance, he can’t bear to watch the slow approach of the crash, but also cannot pull the binoculars away.

He inches forward in Damen’s lap until he can feel his own growing hardness against Damen’s, hear the resulting groan vibrate up through Damen’s throat to try to edge its way past Laurent’s lips. He decides he wants to hear the noises, then, and moves down to mouth at the stubble he’d been captivated by this morning. Damen’s hand smooths down the middle of his back and stops over Laurent’s tailbone.

It isn’t quiet in the least, with all the birds coming awake, and the first warm breezes coming up from the south making the big spruce branches shake against each other, but Laurent feels like they’re caught up in a bubble of stillness, splayed on the moss and filled with love. He says this to Damen through suddenly unhurried kisses, down the length of Damen’s neck, one hand braced at his shoulder and the other wrapping around Damen’s ribs. He gathers the fabric of Damen’s light shirt in a fist, tugs it upward.

They both lean back to take off their shirts; Damen finishes with his first, and squeezes a hand on Laurent’s thigh, just above the knee. “We don’t have to,” he says, leaving it open ended.

Laurent flings his shirt to the side once it’s off and looks into Damen’s eyes. “I want to.” He leans slowly forward again, grinding his hips into Damen just to see his lips part in pleasure. “While we’re together, I want to,” Laurent says.

Damen rocks forward at another push of Laurent’s hips and then collapses backwards. His hands come up to frame Laurent’s ass, more following Laurent’s motions than guiding them. Laurent can’t help but smile at the sight of Damen below him, when only days ago he had been the same flirtatious man, and then a glove above the water surface, and then someone to face a wolf with. Laurent feels everything quake in his heart, overcome, and leans down to cup Damen’s cheek, his other hand braced on the ground. Damen meets his eyes with a wide hopeful look.

“I—” Laurent starts, but then he shakes his head and strokes a finger over the end of Damen’s eyebrow. “Later,” he says.

Damen’s low responding laugh turns into a husky not-quite-moan, which seems to reverberate in the air between them. Laurent groin feels warm and too tight and he’s ready for more of anything that Damen could give him, so he first brings a hand to the buttons of his own trousers, before getting shaky trying to undo Damen’s. He can feel the heat of Damen’s cock under the fabric, and scratches his short nails through the rough trail of hair under his belly; he only caught a glimpse of it when the shirt came off, but sets his eyes firmly on it now, Damen’s skin rising and falling with his breath, twitching under Laurent’s hand.

He glances up at Damen’s face just as his lips drop into a rosy ‘O’ at the feeling of Laurent’s hand coming around him, the trousers now tugged away. Damen’s mouth looks irresistible, but Laurent’s torn between leaning over to kiss him and staying back to watch his own hand, how the skin of Damen’s cock feels so soft even in its hardness. Laurent tenderly thumbs along a vein up to the head, and Damen lets out a wide breath.

“Please,” he gasps, so Laurent leans over, murmurs a _yes_ in reply, and kisses him at the same time his grip firms, pulling a slow stroke.

Laurent only realises that he’s been shifting to rock his hips along the divot where Damen’s thigh meets hip when Damen trails a hand down from where it had been resting prone on the moss by his head to edge his fingers under the waist of Laurent’s trousers. He knows he’s tenting the front of them where they’re unbuttoned and loose, and feeling the press of Damen’s touch even just on his hip makes him feel right on the edge already. His stroking falters for a second and he mouths around to the back of Damen’s jaw.

“Can I?” Damen says between breaths, and Laurent could have sworn it was summer already from the heat through his body, at the way Damen palms his cock. Laurent loses himself a little in the sensation, only panting above Damen’s mouth, lips barely touching until Damen’s cock still in his hand gives a twitch. Damen lets out a noise from the back of his throat that fuels the intensity between them, until finally, with a perfect view of Damen’s half-closed brown eyes and ruddy cheeks, Laurent spills over Damen’s hand and stomach, thighs tensing brutally. He reminds himself hazily to speed his strokes up, give Damen the finish they’re both so desperate for, and within seconds Laurent is audience to the clenching of stomach muscles and the silent catch in Damen’s breath, the hot, warm pulsing of Damen in his hand.

Laurent has no breath left in him to be embarrassed at it all happening so quickly. He veers off to the side; Damen’s hand is trapped under his ribs but he seems content for it to be there. Laurent closes his eyes for what feels like just a second but then opens them with a jolt, as if waking from a deeper rest, when something slightly damp softly scratches across his outstretched palm. Damen’s holding a clump of moss, already having used it to wipe off his belly. He smiles serenely at Laurent, the shine of a tooth revealed at the slow stretch of his lips. Laurent’s cock throbs again slightly, in vain.

A minute later, when they’re dressed and Laurent is picking up the blanket they had discarded at the edge of the clearing, Damen says, “I think about you when I’m in the south.”

Laurent clutches the blanket to his chest. “What?”

“I think about you, always,” Damen says. “What you’re doing in all the months, all the days of the year that I don’t see you in.” He says this with a flush, the words clearly having been held back for a while, tucked behind the tongue. Laurent gapes like a fish, which must be oh so attractive, but Damen seems not to mind, as he scoops up Laurent’s hand in his own as they walk.

It’s the same for me, Laurent wishes he had the presence of mind to say, because it is, he’d been thinking these exact thoughts only the other morning, but all he blurts out is, “Then why do you leave?”

“Because I have to. It’s my work and calling, supporting people,” Damen says, running a hand over the back of his neck. “But you, Laurent,” and he says this with a devastating immensity of feeling, “You’re like coming home.”

He doesn’t mean to leave Damen hanging, especially after this laying out of truths, but Laurent carefully edges around a leafless aspen and considers, well, everything. There’s a drive to trend forward in the whole of Kempt now, led by the industrious southern cities and the countries they trade so easily with, that will eventually make its way up to this fjord and further, one that may push along their engines and machinery into these mountainside farms and quiet coasts, give everyone fancy suit jackets that leave them cold and bare, push out the small, fire-warmed houses for the arches and columns and towers of foreign lands. Laurent is loath to admit it but Damen, with his travels and his intelligence and his openness and his business – he is inextricable from this vision of the future. But, also . . .

He uses sled dogs and loves them enough to hunt deer for them. He never smirked at Laurent’s rambling of the northern gods. He has kissed Laurent a thousand times and now made love to him once, and he’s cradled Laurent’s heart in his big seal-leather gloves. He admires his surroundings, both natural and man-made, with an honest contemplation, and he treats everything he’s given as a treasure. He reminds Laurent of ancient myths as much as he prompts of the future, and he is right here holding Laurent’s hand on their way back to their annual parting.

“I love you,” Laurent says, except it comes out a bit poutier than he wanted. Who can blame him.

Damen laughs that joyous laugh of winter frost and spring sun and squeezes Laurent’s hand. “And how could I not love you in return?”

***

At midday, the inland ferry comes to dock at the town, the men of the town having taken matters into their own hands and broken up the ice as much as possible. Auguste and Laurent help Damen to load his supplies and cargo and the broken sled and all his boisterous dogs onto the deck with minimal fuss. Damen steps back onto the dock to say what is likely an utterly sincere and earnest thanks to Laurent’s mother, who hugs him by surprise, and Damen clutches back, laughing at the strength of it. Auguste gets a shoulder pat and a jolly smile on his own way off the boat, and Laurent stands to the side, hands awkwardly holding the kerchief-wrapped parcel of lunch for Damen’s journey. Damen’s eyes crinkle with his smile once he turns to Laurent, and he gives him a kiss on the forehead, his hand gently set at the back of Laurent’s head.

And then, he leaves.

Although, Laurent notes, it doesn’t feel so much like an ending anymore.

Later, closer to the sunset that keeps crawling further into the evening, Laurent makes the little trek out to the skerry. He perches there, listening to the water lap around the melting ice at the shore and staring out at the western horizon, the ocean shifting and sparkling and enormous in front of him. At the first touch of a small breeze off the water, Laurent closes his eyes, and shifts his stance slightly on the solid bedrock underneath him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at brigitttt (personal) and/or brigittttoo (side with writing), and also on twitter @brigitttt_ . Comments are much appreciated, thank you for reading!


End file.
